Atticus cracked a wry grin. “So the mouse roars?”
“She damn well does.” Harper sipped her tea. Atticus saw her eyes sparkle over the rim of her cup. She lowered her cup to the saucer and returned it to the table.
Atticus leaned forward. His mother had worked for her father. She was pregnant with Atticus at the same time Georgiana was pregnant with Harper. They were both connected to the same damn novel. He wanted to know more about this father he never knew.
“Wasn’t your father a writer? Parker Muir.”
“He was. Never published, though. That’s how he met my mother. She never said so, but I think she was supposed to edit his book. There was only one. A lifetime’s work.”
“Did you ever read this book?”
She shook her head. “No. It breaks my heart that Carson lived with him all those years, but she never even picked it up. I can’t imagine not grabbing it and reading it under the covers at night with a flashlight. Anything . . . just out of curiosity. But Carson’s not much of a reader.”
“What happened to the book?”
“Parker destroyed it. Such a waste,” Harper said with feeling. “The only copy. He must’ve hit rock bottom.”
“That was the only copy?” Atticus asked, astonished.
“Yes. And it’s lost.” She sighed. “I would have liked to have read it. Good or bad.”
“Do you remember your father?”
“Yes, but we didn’t have many precious father-daughter moments. Mummy wouldn’t allow it. She hated him, you see. Still does, and the man has been dead for years. She never wanted me to so much as mention his name growing up. I couldn’t even keep a photograph of him. So you can imagine how she felt when I told her I was writing a book. She went nuclear, told me—again—that I had no talent. Mummy can be so supportive,” Harper said with heavy sarcasm. “Her hatred of him is positively pathological.”
“That sounds harsh.” Atticus was shaken by this description, knowing the facts of Parker’s affair.
Harper shrugged. “It’s the truth. Like I said, anything to do with Parker Muir was anathema to her. And by association, his mother, Sea Breeze, and the entire South. As I mentioned, we had a big argument on the phone, and the gist of it all is, she said she’s not coming to the wedding.”
Atticus knew that the mother-daughter relationship loomed large during the wedding process. And that children of neglectful parents were, unbelievingly, often all the more attached to them.
“How do you feel about her not coming?”
Harper’s mask of bravado slipped off to reveal a face of sorrow. “Sad,” she said in a soft voice. “There’s a part of me that still wishes she could be happy for me. Of course I want my mother at my wedding. I don’t have my father, either. Or a grandfather.” Harper sniffed so hard for a moment that he feared she might burst into tears. But she held herself together. She lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug and said in a wobbly voice, “Who is going to walk me down the aisle?”
Atticus looked at her, and his steady eyes met hers. “Who do you want to walk you down the aisle? It doesn’t have to be a man,” he prodded gently.
Harper had such an expressive face. He knew the moment the answer came to her. There was relief and lessening of grief followed by a look of wonder.
“Granny James,” she said clearly, her mouth breaking into a wide grin. “And Mamaw. Can I have two women walk me down the aisle?”
“You can have whatever you want.”
“Then of course. I want my grandmothers.”
Chapter Nineteen
It is inconsiderate as well as impolite not to send a reply to a wedding invitation which includes R.S.V.P.
—Etiquette, Emily Post
The MacKenzies are a yes?” Granny James exclaimed, flabbergasted. “That old laird hasn’t left his castle in twenty years, but he’s coming all the way from Scotland for the wedding?” She shook her head. “If this keeps up, we will have to rent another tent.”
“At least they responded,” Harper said. “I can’t believe how many people haven’t yet. It’s so rude!” The two women were sitting together at the desk in Harper’s office, accompanied by a crackling fire and a tea service, sorting the invitation responses.
“What’s happening in a world where people don’t RSVP to something as important as a wedding? The planning involved, the cost . . .” Granny James sniffed haughtily. “Raised by wolves.”
“What do I do with all the ones we haven’t heard from yet?”
Granny James lowered the cards in her hand and looked up, her glasses slipping down her nose. “I suppose we can try and follow up with a phone call. But I tell you, my dear, if anyone waltzes into the wedding without having responded, they’ll be escorted out! I don’t care if they did fly in from Europe.”
“Watch your blood pressure, Granny,” Harper said with humor in her voice. Then, setting down her pen, she said with feeling, “I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done. I had no idea how difficult things must have been for you this past year. And you still finding time to plan my wedding. I’ve been so selfish, thinking only of myself.”
“Not at all, child. You weren’t meant to know.” Granny James smiled. “You’re the bride. Besides, the wedding has been the one bright spot in a long annus horribilis.”
“Granny James,” Harper began hesitantly, remembering the scene in Granny’s room the other day that had ended with the older woman near tears. “I know you’re not happy Mamaw is in the cottage. That you’d expected to be in there.” She added ruefully, “You’ve made that abundantly clear. But I hope you know that you are welcome here—for as long as you want. This is your home.”
“Thank you, dear. I appreciate you saying that. And Marietta and I seem to be managing just fine,” she said lightly, sifting again through the response cards.
Harper paused. “Do you remember you asked me to talk to Taylor about a prenuptial agreement?”
Granny James looked up, fingers stilled. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, he doesn’t want to sign one.”
“He doesn’t want to?”
“No. We had quite a heart-to-heart.” Harper gathered her strength. “And if he doesn’t want to sign, I won’t make him.”
Granny folded her hands on the table. “I see.”
“He also told me he feels uncomfortable living at Sea Breeze because it’s my house. Not ours.”
“Well, dear, the house is yours.”
“Actually, it isn’t. Not until I turn thirty when I pay back the loan. It’s yours.”
Granny looked at her sharply. “What are you trying to say?”
“I love Taylor, more than any house or any amount of money. If he’s not happy, I’m not happy. So, what I’m suggesting is that you make Sea Breeze your home. Taylor and I will move.”
“What?” Granny James’s voice was sharp. She whipped off her eyeglasses. “Don’t be silly. That’s not what I want at all.”
“But it makes sense. You need a place to live. You already paid for the house. Taylor has some money saved, and a nice income from his job, and I’ve made money off the book. Although not much,” Harper added with a laugh. “We can rent a place.”
“You’ll do no such thing. I realize you’re pregnant, but really, Harper, must you be so dramatic? We’re British. We don’t let our emotions rule. Let’s table this discussion for another time. Neither of us is going anywhere for the moment. Do I make myself clear?”
Harper sat back, unaccustomed to Granny’s sharp tone.
Granny’s face appeared contrite. “Forgive me. It’s that I’m quite flustered. Please, be a good girl and don’t mention this again. Sea Breeze is your home. If anyone should go, it will be me. Now”—she slipped her glasses back on—“tell me again how many yes responses came today?”
Harper hesitated, then lowered her gaze and resolutely began counting the list of names on the paper. Granny James took a breath, relieved that Harper didn’t notice her hands
were shaking.
Later that afternoon Imogene was on her hands and knees in Harper’s garden, Harper’s wide-brimmed hat on her head and a sharp spade in her hand. She’d been attacking weeds with a vengeance. Her conversation with Harper had her so vexed she needed to get outdoors and put her hands in the soil. If the word soil could be applied to whatever she was digging in now, she thought wryly. As far as she could tell, it was all sand and mud.
Imagine, Harper telling her that she could live at Sea Breeze. She’d think her insolent if she hadn’t said it so sincerely. Imogene paused, leaned on her hands, and caught her breath. In truth, she did feel homeless. She missed her extensive gardens at Greenfields Park. Now that was soil, she thought wistfully. Her gardens had been her private sanctuary, which she’d tended carefully for more than forty years. If she closed her eyes, she could see the rows of perennials, touched by dew when she took her morning walk. This time of year the air would be crisp and fragrant.
Imogene opened her eyes and wiped the sweat from her brow. But she wasn’t at Greenfields Park, she reminded herself, shaking from her doldrums. She would never live there again. That part of her life, her life with Jeffrey, was finished. This was her new life, here in the lowcountry. She rested her spade and looked out over the Cove. The sun was shining in a sky a piercing blue. For as far as she could see, water and sea grass swirled together with as much color and energy as a painting by van Gogh. The view was so different from the rolling fields of England. Yet she would never tire of it. Of this she was certain. The mystery and magic of the lowcountry, unlike anywhere else, she found unusually comforting. She sighed and, with a half smile, thought she could use a little mystery and magic in her life now, after so many years facing harsh realities.
She heard a birdcall and looked up, her eyes darting about trying to spot the source behind the unique sound. She loved the variety of birds along the coast, especially now as birds migrated, choosing their summer range. She’d seen plenty of the winter residents—cardinals, sparrows, mockingbirds, and blue jays—but she was eager to spy a bluebird or yellow-throated warbler, a South Carolina wren, and most especially a ruby-throated hummingbird.
Instead of a bird, however, she spied Taylor. He was coming her way carrying a tall glass. Dear boy, she thought, feeling her thirst acutely. She tugged at her gardening gloves and looked up, smiling, as he approached.
“You are an angel of mercy,” she told him, reaching up to accept the glass.
“Granny James, do you have a minute? I’d like a word.”
Imogene drank the glass of tea to the dregs. She had an inkling what Taylor might want to discuss and suddenly wished this tea had some of Mamaw’s secret additive in it.
“Help me up, then,” she said briskly, offering Taylor her hand. “I’ll get a crick in my neck if I have to look all the way up at you.”
She offered her hand, and with an easy pull Taylor had her standing on her feet. They walked together to the porch, where she sat in a large black wicker chair under the welcome shade of the awning. Granny sank into the cushion with a weary sigh and fanned her face with her gloves. Taylor, she noticed, did not sit. He stood wide legged with his hands behind his back, his face completely unreadable. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was about to salute her.
“So, Taylor, what is so important that you pull me from the garden like some old weed?”
“I spoke with Harper the other night about the prenup,” Taylor said in an even voice, not mincing words. “I don’t like it. Just saying.”
Granny James tsked with impatience and opened her mouth to speak, but Taylor put up his hand to silence her. “Let me finish.”
Granny James snapped her mouth shut, but her eyes narrowed.
“The James estate means nothing to me. But I gave it a lot of thought, talked it over with Blake, and he helped me understand why it means a great deal to you. Back in the day, Blake’s family once held a large plantation here in the lowcountry. The Legares tried to hold on to it for generations, keeping the land in the family. It was considered a sacred trust. But in time . . . the war, it was sold off, bit by bit. Now it’s no longer in family hands.” Taylor looked out at the Cove. When he turned back, he met Granny James’s eyes levelly. “So I can understand you wanting to keep your property in the bloodline. Still, the balance of power shifts to Harper within this arrangement. She already owns the house.”
“You knew that going into this.”
“I did. I guess I figured we’d work it out between us. Despite what you might still think, I’m not interested in Harper’s money.”
“I never thought you were.” She paused and looked at him, searching for an honest answer. “Will Harper marry you if you don’t sign?”
“Yeah.” His face softened. “She’s got her heart in the right place. Which is why I want to meet her halfway.”
Granny James liked what she heard and cocked her head. “I’m listening.”
“I called a friend of mine, a lawyer, and he said we could isolate specific things, like the James trust and the house—and leave out the rest. That way after we’re married, any money Harper makes and any money I make we pool together and make decisions just like any other normal married couple. And I get to keep my balls in the process. If your lawyers can whip up a prenuptial agreement that spells that out, I’ll sign it.”
Granny James resisted a smile at the boy’s cheeky choice of wording and pursed her lips. She brought to mind Harper’s earlier suggestion that she and Taylor move from Sea Breeze. “To be clear, you’ll agree to live in this house with Harper? Even though it’s in her name?”
“Yes.”
Granny James refrained from revealing her relief. She chewed the tip of her glasses. “What made you change your mind?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s simple. I love Harper. She loves Sea Breeze. I want her to be happy.”
Granny James slipped her sunglasses back on her head and rose with agonizing slowness to her feet. She keenly felt the past hour she’d spent on her knees. “Very well, young man. I’ll call my lawyers and it shall be done as you’ve requested.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Taylor turned to leave.
“Taylor!” Granny James called after him.
He spun on his heel to face her.
“You are a remarkable young man. And Harper is a very fortunate young woman.”
His stern face at last eased into a begrudging smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She watched him turn again and walk with long strides back into the house before she broke into a wide grin of her own.
Atticus slept in boxers with the doors of his bedroom wide-open, leading to the porch. Beyond the doors the great blackness of the ocean sky blanketed him, the gentle breeze better than any fan and the gentle roar of the ocean a soothing white noise. He had to hand it to Dora for finding this place. He’d never slept so well before in his life.
But in the morning he paid the price of open curtains. The sun rose smack outside his window and, like any star performer, demanded he rise to his feet and appreciate her glory.
Atticus rose with the sun and gave humble thanks. Then he headed for the shower. A short while later he took a last slurp of his coffee, laced up his running shoes, grabbed his sunglasses and ball cap, then headed outdoors.
Stepping into the morning air, he felt the moisture of the ocean on his face. He stretched and slipped his cap on, back forward, and headed toward the shoreline. This early in the morning the sand was smooth and undisturbed by footfalls. Shells and wrack littered the high-tide line, which formed a wavy dark line across the glistening, pristine beach. His spirits lifted as he caught his stride and he felt the truth in the old adage the world was his oyster.
He’d run nearly two miles and was approaching the southern tip of the island where Breach Inlet separated Isle of Palms from Sullivan’s Island. Up ahead he spotted two male runners heading his way. They were tall and fit, and behind them trotted two big dogs, one yellow,
the other black as night. They made quite a sight, as testified by the two women in jogging attire who had stopped running and turned back to stare at them after they passed.
“Hey, bros!” he shouted, lifting his arms to greet Blake and Taylor as they approached.
“Atticus, my man,” Taylor called as he jogged to his side. They were both dressed in running shorts and T-shirts spotted with sweat. Taylor’s T-shirt was worn, torn, and had USMC in bold letters across his chest. “So,” he said with approval in his gaze, “the Rev runs.”
“Every day.” Atticus took deep, gulping breaths. These guys must’ve run all the way from Sea Breeze on Sullivan’s Island and were barely winded.
“You should join us,” Blake offered. Then he cracked a wicked grin. “If you can keep up.”
“Oh, I can keep up.” Atticus laughed, trying not to openly pant. He glanced over Taylor’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, but your fans are coming,” he said in a low voice, nodding.
Taylor looked over his shoulder to see the two twentysomethings walking their way. The blonde, her luxuriant hair pulled back into a long ponytail that swished jauntily left to right when she walked, seemed to be forcing the darker woman to accompany her. The blonde had her gaze set on Taylor. The other woman’s hair was black and her ebony skin glistened with a fine sweat from her run. Atticus remembered his mama telling him that ladies didn’t sweat, they glowed.
“Nice dogs,” the blonde said, lifting her arms to point out the two dogs frolicking in the surf, oblivious of their admirers. “Are they yours?”
“No, they just followed us,” Taylor replied.
“Really?” she answered, eyes wide. “Don’t they scare you? They’re so big.”
Atticus met Blake’s eyes, and it was all they could do not to laugh.
“No, I’m just messing with you,” Taylor said. “They’re our dogs.”
“They’re beautiful,” the black-haired woman said, eyes on the dogs. “It’s nice to see animals so fit.”
A Lowcountry Wedding Page 27